The Return of Mary Magdalene

By Linda Lee Christenberry

THE RETURN OF MARY MAGDALENE is a romance set in 1985, during the lead up to the first worldwide television broadcast of a rock concert to raise money to feed starving Africans. Mary is a refugee relief philanthropist who is contacted by retired rock star Lionel Lionhart, who convinces her to set up and handle delivery of the food. David, the drummer in Lionels band - Taller - comes out of seclusion to participate. Mary goes from a depressed, world-weary girl who has seen too much death, to a light-filled woman because Love lifts her up into a new understanding of the true place of womankind and how the world was originally created to work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 5, 2006
• ISBN: 9781469121932

Linda Lee Christenberry

Linda Lee is co-creator of www.apieineverywindow.com, a spiritual women’s website that facilitates Love in the Happy Dream. Mary’s message— “mind is the builder and the bridge”—reminds readers that every established spiritual path already teaches Compassion and reveals the path to World Peace. A graduate of the University of Tennessee and Vanderbilt University, Linda Lee’s career encompassed Wandering the Earth in search of Truth. Her three dogs—Murphy, Scarlett and Smudgie—allow her to share life with them in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, where Happiness abounds. Truth? “ What u give u give 2 urself!”

Book preview

Copyright © 2006 by Linda Lee Christenberry.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2005911443

ISBN:   Hardcover           1-4134-8223-6

            Softcover              1-4134-8222-8

       eBook           978-1-4691-2193-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

27193

To

Lea & Samuel

Your

Unconditional Love

Gives Me

A New Life,

Every Day.

Thanks!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Afterword

Chapter One

Mary pressed her body against the rain-streaked office window. Far below her, lines of glistening cars maneuvered around Times Square. It was the late rush hour, a bubble of time filled with suburbanites and tourists hastening to make the eight o’clock curtain at nearby Broadway theaters. All was a whirl of chaos leading to world-class performances on many of America’s greatest stages.

The midtown area of Manhattan, always a riotous nighttime mosaic of blazing car lights and neon signs, felt even more alive tonight as light beams bounced off wet sidewalks and puddles. Masses of people moved in and out of the rays, but, from the 40th floor, their bodies appeared to be part of the darkness, not the light.

Light glanced off them.

In Mary’s hand rested a soft leather pouch. A beautiful face, his countenance a million times brighter than Times Square—or the Sun itself—rose in her mind’s eye.

Her thoughts flew back to Rock Aid, to the afternoon when she and David stood side by side before the world. Holding his big warm hand, feeling as young and safe and carefree as any gawky newlywed girl who adores her husband, she glowed. As the applause swept over them and the band, he grinned at her and winked.

When he swept her up in his long arms, in the embrace of a lifetime, the crowd roared approval. He was back. The band had gotten together. Their hero was in love. Love was contagious at Rock Aid in 1985.

I felt so good about our future. For the first time in my life, everything was clear and fine, she thought. Oh, there was work to be done, getting planeloads of provisions to famine-swept Ethiopia, and I expected David to work beside me in that effort. I assumed he would always be by my side.

Hadn’t he promised her, on their honeymoon in the mountains, that he would never, ever leave her?

Since the concert, however, their lives had taken some surprising turns.

And David? Where are you tonight, my darling? Don’t you feel my heart calling to yours? My heart beats for you!

She emptied the contents of the pouch—a blue marble, a smooth stone from a mountain stream, and a small diamond pyramid—into her palm.

Where are you, my dearest one? she whispered into the night, watching her breath curl up and die on the cold glass. Her fingers closed over the little treasures, and, for a long time, she relived the rituals he had performed and his saying, These are the symbols for my new parables; all together they tell of the great paradigm shift that is occurring in this era.

* * *

How long have I been standing here? She wondered, looking at her watch. It was long past eight, and she was hungry. She smiled despite her discomfort, remembering David once saying, The body has a way of taking care of you in the acts of simple living. He was right, of course. Eating and drinking and sleeping and working, day after day, meant she was still alive. She always moved forward, keeping his image framed in her beating heart. Her need for body warmth, she tried not to think about too much. His love had filled her completely, and so having another lover after David was unthinkable.

* * *

One by one, lingering over each, remembering the sacred lessons he had taught her in their brief life together, she placed the beloved objects back in the pouch.

She was so lost in beautiful memories that, when the phone rang, she jumped and bumped her knee on the edge of her desk. Few people had the number to her private line and, quickly calculating, she eliminated most of them. Who could be calling her office so late? Could something else be wrong?

Hello? She knew her anxiety sounded in her voice.

Mary? Is that you? Lionel’s voice came to her upon a crackle from inside a tin can.

Stunned, she blanked out for a second and could not reply.

Mary? Answer me! he pleaded. I don’t know how long this damned line is going to hold. Mary?

Behind cemented lips, her tongue felt wadded up in her mouth. She sat down and stared at a spot on her blotter. Lionel was supposed to be dead. Suddenly, regaining her wits and hoping David was alive, too, her mind caught fire, and she blurted out Lionel? Is it really you? Where are you? Where is David? Is he alive?

Yes. Yes! We’re calling from an island in the Coral Sea. Australia is off there somewhere. This is the only damned phone they have—a 1930’s phone on the wall.

Where is David? she asked, desperate to hear the sound of his voice. Is he all right?

Yes, he’s all right, but we’ve all been sick. Malaria is the pit of hell. We are thin and tired and I want a real meal in a real restaurant in New York City. I am not a rice and vegetables man.

Everyone thinks you are dead, Mary replied.

We thought so, too, he laughed, a couple of times. But no, here we are, all in one piece.

All of you? Everyone is okay?

Near ’bout, was part of his reply. Some words about Nick’s being a good doctor were garbled, alarming Mary that the line might go dead before she got to speak to David.

Can I speak to David now? Though she did not want to appear to be brushing Lionel aside, she was. All she truly wanted was to hear David’s voice again. To be sure he was alive. To hear his voice, his precious breath.

He’s gone to signal Keith that we got through. Keith is worried about… Mad… Lacey, you know. Oops! Here’s… old man now.

David’s laughter sent the crackling phone line into a cacophony of unpleasant buzzes and hisses. He was clearly delighted to be talking to her, but she could not understand a word he said.

David? David, I can’t understand you! Speak slowly. We have a bad connection.

He said something that sounded like, Surf’s up, and then laughed again, sending the phone system into a tizzy.

I’ve missed you so much.

 . . . miss you. His laughter was uncontained. Lot… tell… see you then. Pick us up… promise?

Where are you? What island? She tried to ask the right questions but could not shake the feeling that she was talking to a ghost. What happened?

 . . . plane crashed… island… near… Guinea… awful sick… ry. His voice came in between a whirring sound.  . . . eager to… ack… ountains. Tell Ti… .

When will you be here? she almost shouted, enlivened by the prospect of seeing David’s dark head towering over all the others at some airport, but which one? Where do I meet you? When?

Three days, his voice trailed off. at Ken… dy… . o’clock… the aft… noon.

What’s the flight number? She shrieked as the connection rapidly faded. David!

He said something that sounded like Sydney, but she could not be sure.

With a sickening whimper, the line went dead. Reluctantly, Mary hung up the phone. Then, quite briskly, she retrieved the phone and dialed a long distance number.

They’re alive! she exclaimed. I just got a call. Tell Ticonna and Lacey. For fifteen minutes, she relayed the good news, and, with a promise that David would call immediately upon his return, she hung up.

Smiling, she dropped the leather pouch in her purse and strode across the plush carpet of her office toward the big mahogany doors. As she entered the glass-enclosed lobby, Mildred looked up, duster in hand.

Mary laughed, did a little jig, and cried out, Shout hallelujah, Mildred! He’s back!

The only question in Mary’s mind was how to contain herself for three days until David’s return.

Who’s back? asked Mildred.

My husband! Mary exclaimed, as she twirled to and through the glass doors of the outer office. My beautiful, glorious, fabulous, delightful, brilliant, sexy husband!

Woman’s in love, thought Mildred, passing her duster over the receptionist’s desk. At least he ain’t dead. Ain’t no joy in loving a dead man. As she emptied a trash basket into the big trash bag on her cleaning caddy, she thought, Ain’t no way things can be the same, though. The dead don’t come back to life so easy.

* * *

Mary walked up Broadway as if she were seven feet tall. An enormous smile lit up her face as she swept along the sidewalk. To her right and left swam masses of heavily bundled bodies, but she was light as air and stepped high above them. She was too excited to simply go home. What she needed was a quiet dinner in a place where she could be among people—but not really with anybody.

Taxi! she shouted at 45th, and, miraculously, the first one stopped. Laughing, she got in and said, You’re the first one I hailed.

The cabbie peered in his rear-view mirror at her. He was an old hand and had seen it all, but her glowing happiness bathed him in good feelings. Yeah, well, miracles can happen. Where to? He turned on the meter.

Joe Allen’s, replied Mary. It was a popular restaurant in the theater district. Staring out the rain-squiggled window into the dark blue night, Mary hoped she had not been too rude to Lionel. Without him, she would never have met David.

I was still Stella, then, thought Mary. It all happened before meeting David, who was my hero—literally my savior—and changed my life as well as my name. Mary Stella Mann called Stella—a word for star my mother said. Before David, I was a dark star, living in Darkness. I felt so desperately alone, so deeply unhappy, and nearly hopeless before I met him. When I became his own love, he gave me a new name and a new life.

* * *

Ethiopia could have used some rain that season.

It was against the cloudless Ethiopian sky that she first saw Lionel, tall and blond and charismatically handsome. Maybe, just a little bit at first, I fell in love with him. I was so vulnerable, and Lionel’s charisma cannot be resisted by anyone—man, woman or child. He actually glows!

* * *

Huge eyes and bellies waved before Stella, as she stood in the merciless sun, carefully doling out one scoop of sadza into each tiny bowl. Her hair, knotted into a bun at the back of her head, was sopping wet, and the weight of it dragged at her temples. The old straw hat cut into her forehead. Her back ached so acutely that she kept switching the ladle to her left hand—then switching it back—because, if she weren’t careful, a precious drop of the corn meal gruel might fall into the dust.

In an effort to release her back muscles, she shifted her feet, tucked her pelvis, and slightly bent her knees. The subtle movements, which usually brought relief, sent painful spasms up the backs of her thighs and into her buttock muscles.

Daddy never dreamed there would be so many refugees, Stella mused as she stood again and rocked back on her heels, her eyes scanning the seemingly endless camp. It stretched as far as the eye could see. There was Dr. Daniels, treating the stream of mothers with their sick children that flowed beside his tent all day, behaving as if it were not endless. He acted as if he was a normal doctor in a normal situation and could easily see every patient by closing time, but darkness always crept in and slammed the door—or tent flat—on this effort. Without assistance, without a nurse, he nevertheless maintained a dignified and confident front. His little patients trusted him, and he did his best for them. Even he, however, had to rest.

So much more sickness and death now than last year, she realized as she continued ladling out the life-sustaining mush. Last year we occasionally got a break.

A plane flew over, but who had the strength to look up? Only Dr. Daniels, who came to the entrance of his tent and gazed skyward, maintained hope. Doctors were always hoping for the arrival of more medical supplies. Stella, feeling concerned because her own supplies of food and water were so short, concentrated on holding the ladle steady.

Sadly, few planes landed these days. The Arpad II, Stella’s plane, had been the first to arrive with medical supplies in two months. She also brought the first current newspapers that the camp had seen in weeks.

Upon landing, the rows of dead bodies bloating in the sun stunned Stella and Steve, the Arpad’s pilot. The stench was nauseating. The few who had strength to bury the dead moved among them masked, with the stealth-like grace of ghosts-to-be.

The doctor told her that the rebels were nearby, and so was the general’s army. All the able-bodied men had either escaped or been conscripted or murdered. Food supplies destined for the refugees were being stolen by the truckload. No medicine for the dying children had come into the camp in weeks.

The night they arrived, she and Steve had unloaded, with some assistance from Dr. Daniels, the entire plane. Government agencies and international charities that had planes had not gotten permission to land at the camp, not with combatants so close. Stella was pleased that Steve, once again, slipped them through the radar, and she hoped these meager supplies were going to go far, like the fishes and the loaves, to keep the camp alive until the Red Cross and Red Crescent could successfully mobilize their resources in this direction. It was common knowledge in the relief community that the population of this camp was rapidly increasing and that few supplies were getting through. That was why, as small operators, she and Steve had risked the perilous trip. When she saw the degraded condition of the camp, it was much worse than rumored. She gave thanks she and Steve had made it. She hoped their meager offerings stretched far enough. I live to serve, I guess, because this camp needs me. When needed, Stella gloried in rising to the occasion.

By midnight, when she lay down, she slept. Even in the midst of incredible deprivation, exhaustion carried her into her dreams—for a brief while.

* * *

No, don’t hurt them—I won’t tell—I,— she was crying when Steve grasped her shoulder.

Stella? Stella? he queried gently, Come back to the plane, Stella. Come on back here. You’re all right. Your ole buddy Steve is here. His voice was low, and his grip on her shoulder was firm. Over the years of their working together, he had awakened Stella from many nightmares.

Steve knew all about nightmares. Nocturnal horrors once visited him, bringing back memories of struggling to stay alive, alone for weeks in a jungle in North Viet Nam.

In his dreams he relived clinging helplessly to a treetop for two days—or was it three?—where he helplessly watched his buddies as, one by one, they were tortured to death by an NVR officer and two soldiers. The screams of his friends once haunted every hour of his life, awake or asleep.

Even when the torture was over and the solders appeared to have left, Steve waited a long, long time before leaving his tree. Finally, pocketing their dog tags, he mourned them but could not bury them. That would give him away. If the NVR knew a man had survived the crash and missed the torture, they would begin a manhunt he definitely could not survive. Dangerous enough, he thought, to retrieve one tag from each body, because that NVR officer knows that air combatants get privileged information. The big picture is in our heads and that is exactly what he wanted to know, Steve once told Stella.

Steve knew where he was on the map in his mind. He had a photographic memory, and so memorizing maps was not hard. What was hard was believing he could make it back to his own base camp and not, in the end, get shot by friendly fire. It was a long way to go, but he was Recon. The American Army had trained him to survive perilous journeys, and this one, an impossible mission for most men, set his teeth and squared his jaw. He patted the dog tags in his pocket and said to himself, Move out, soldier.

When Steve moved out, he left his youth behind. Compass in hand, every sense jagged and raw, he walked, hid and rarely rested. He never slept. His best friends were rotting behind him—their screams roaring in his ears—keeping him awake, pushing him away.

He never, truly, left them behind, but he forced himself to move forward, move forward, and somewhere on that trail of grief and determination to survive he realized he was in hell—it could never get worse than this—so he watched the sun and the stars and vowed to someday, somehow, make the world a better place. Heaven’s above was his mantra, of sorts. I’m not stuck here forever.

Like a man in ancient times, Steve depended on the heavens and his instincts and, one day, awoke in a hospital where he had slept for days and had dreamed over and over of the battle between Heaven and Hell.

* * *

Their mutual challenge of getting themselves through bad nights had long ago bonded Stella and Steve, not as lovers bond, but as survivors unite in quiet determination to help each other and, maybe, to do something meaningful to right the world’s wrongs. In their waking hours, Steve and Stella kept each other’s secrets.

Stella always dreamed the teenaged refugee’s fingers were again inside her tiny, tight vagina, probing and laughing at her reactions. His amber cat eyes glowed with fire, and his threats to hurt her parents if she told on him, rang in her ears. Occasional and mysterious feelings of pleasure sank her heart in guilt. Her parents were in danger! She was confused and overwhelmed by his relentless assaults, but she never told anyone until years later in therapy.

Despite learning that she was not guilty—that her guilty pleasure was merely the body’s physiological response—nightmares plagued her all her adult life. The fear, the helplessness, the lack of control suffered by victims, mixed with her rage at tyrants, was a knife plunged in her brain. Stella identified with those ravaged by war but still felt that helpless rage of her childhood.

Mercifully, the airplane cabin came into view, and those knotted horrors of her past loosened their hold on her mind. Gradually, her eyes focused upon Steve’s black, weathered face, and the invisible knife slid out of her tortured brain and back into its sheaf, poised for future torment.

This time you were talking in your sleep, he whispered. Maybe that’s a good sign. Some day you will be free of him, of all of that. You’ll be free of fear.

Oh I wonder. I wasn’t really prepared for what we found here today. There is a child in me who always wants to take these people to our farm in Georgia and set ’em down to a home-cooked rib-stickin’-good meal. I am afraid for all of us.

That food would make them sick, Steve whispered, brushing her damp hair off her face. You are a good girl, Stel. Your life is good. You can’t save everybody.

Even myself?

Stop beating yourself up. You know better.

Do I? What bothers me most, Steve, is the indifference of the world. How can they be so cold?

Blindness. They can’t see it, he replied.

They don’t want to see.

Nobody wants to see poverty and despair, Steve answered. Horrible suffering like this just frightens them more, it drives them to accumulate more wealth so they’ll be safe, insulated against anything so horrible.

But if it’s so horrible, why not do something to change it? She asked.

They think the government, or somebody else, is doing it for them, he said. And we know that’s not happening. So who is going to teach them?

My Dad taught me, and he’s rich.

He was once a refugee, wasn’t he?

Yes. From the failed Hungarian Revolution. ’56.

Lucky for these people that he is one of them and that he got rich and he remembered.

Yes. Lucky for me, too. What else could I do?

Fate gave you this path, Stella. It’s a blessing. Pain is a very valuable gift.

Okay. Okay. But I would like to sleep a night through.

Close your eyes. For a while the compatriots sat together silently, surrounded by starvation and death and menacing solders whose allegiance one never knew. Then Stella whispered, This really is Hell.

Yeah. Ethiopia reminds me of Nam, he agreed, without the jungle. His sadness showed in his eyes, but Stella only glimpsed it before his hard-won lightness of spirit returned to comfort them both. We’re doing what we can, Stella. And that’s all we can do. He paused. I think we’re incredibly lucky to be able to do it.

They were quiet together for a long time.

At last she said, I think I can go back to sleep now. Thanks, Steve, and she turned and hugged him. You are a great guy. The best. I couldn’t be doing this work without you.

Oh, you’d find another crazy vet to fly you under the radar, Steve said as he stepped back to his bunk, slid under the sheet, pulled it over his shoulders and relaxed.

Nothing about you is crazy, she whispered.

I know, he sighed, but it’s a crazy world. The world tries to destroy Peace, and that’s what makes this world crazy. A world without Peace is the definition of insanity.

Sanity would be good, said Stella, closing her eyes and hoping for a happy dream. And the world needs Peace so desperately.

Within a very few minutes, she heard his even, steady breathing.

She felt awe, as always, for Steve’s monumental peace of mind. Despite where he had been and what he had seen—and what he had done. He told her once that he had been trained to kill and in many ways. Once, somewhere west of here in a jungle, the two of them had had to run and hide from soldiers who were marauding their camp. When a machine gun appeared in Steve’s hand, Stella was shocked. Seeing her face twisted with disbelief, he simply shrugged, pushed her into a hiding place, and lay down and sighted back along the trail. All he said was, I’m not going to let anybody hurt you.

After years of wandering and suffering, he said he had found an answer: Discipline and Contentment. Simple as that, he told her. They were words he happened to hear on television, spoken by the Dalai Lama. Those words turned over a foul thing in his mind and bathed it in the light of purpose. Without spending even one moment investigating Buddhism, Steve buckled down and began his devotion to those two concepts. It was amazing to her that two words could change a person’s life like that, but they had changed his.

She sank back in her bunk, silent and grateful. I have a mission in life that is big enough to ease my pain, she thought, but I wish I could find what Steve found—a few words, perhaps a philosophy. A bright, shining key to peace of mind and emotional contentment.

Her heart broke for the abused human beings around her tonight, and she wondered what her life would be like under other circumstances. What if we lived in a world without refugees? Where could we channel our pain and make the world a better place? Without our mission, who would we be?

Steve’s steady breathing softened and deepened.

He knows these situations as well as I do, but he is no longer in any pain at all. I feel jealous because contentment and discipline are not words enough for me. How can I rest when I see so much suffering? She agonized, feeling herself part of an endless column of fleeing women, shepherding their listless children around in circles while armies marched back and forth across their bodies. The low mewing and rasping sounds of dying people underscored her thoughts. I wish we could find a new god, a god who takes pity on women and children. One who cherishes women and children, cherishes us all, who protects the weak and helpless from men like the hard-line Marxist dictator of this country, a man whose narcissistic lust for power and control kills 10,000 people a month. Her lips formed a mirthless smile. What is it you sadists hope to gain by holding our lives so cheap? And why does God? Allah? The ancestral gods of these tribes? Whoever You are out there—hey! Listen to me. Why, on top of genocide, do you withhold the rain? Why add famine to war to make starvation a certainty?

Her bitter questions soured her stomach. Thrashing about in the damp sheets, she gritted her teeth, wadding up her pillow and sticking it under her head. Oh, what a terrible place You have created here. Aren’t You bored, yet, with all this death? What is it going to take to stop Your grim amusement?

Eventually, without getting any answers, Stella sank into the dreamless rest of utter exhaustion.

* * *

Day hit the arid plain with the promise of extreme heat. The situation was desperate, and every moment was precious. From first light, she and Steve were busy. Wielding a pick and shovel, he buried the dead while, at the other end of the camp, she prepared sadza for those still living. A few women who had some remaining strength helped her handle the heavy pots of sadza. They ate a little extra and gave larger portions to their children, a practice Stella encouraged by pretending not to notice.

Dr. Daniels, after a long night of sorting through and organizing his new supplies, opened the flap on his tent and, as the line of sick and dying formed outside, devoted all his energy to doing what he could for them. Stella prayed for healing for them all.

* * *

It’s probably another load of supplies intended for these people, Stella thought when she heard the plane pass overhead. Either the soldiers will steal everything or it will wind up on the Black Market. Or God knows where. Not here. Not likely.

When she thought, I would give a lot for a massage tonight, she felt surprised. Shifting her weight to her heels, in another attempt to lessen the strain on her back, she continued to ladle out one more day of life to as many as she could until additional help—or a miracle—appeared.

Hey there, a deep masculine voice rang out, would you be working alone here, sweetheart?

Stella looked up and, wiping her eyes of sweat, saw the silhouette of a very tall man coming out of a bright, white heat wave. As her eyes cleared and adjusted to the sun, she discerned a great mane of curly blond hair upon this apparition from the desert.

Where did you come from? she asked.

The plane that just landed, he replied, passing by the line of refugees. Didn’t you see us land?

No, Stella replied, getting him in focus. I thought you kept going like all the others.

Well, there’s another plane sitting over there, the man pointed. It says the Arpad II.

Yes, I know, responded Stella, bending once again to her task, feeling the muscles in her right side scream for relief. It’s ours. We’ve been here, she paused, trying to remember how long. Several weeks. Or so.

What is an Arpad?

Arpad, she pronounced it properly, was a great warrior. A leader. Hungarian. What are you doing here?

That’s an odd name for a plane.

No, it’s not. Once upon a time my father was a Hungarian refugee in America.

When was that?

Thirty years ago. Now his philanthropy is relief programs for other refugees. Her disgust with his ignorance of the refugee issue, which was typical, renewed her energy. She filled the little bowls as fast as she could despite her blinding headache and aching back. She added, Other wars, other places and some good luck made my father the generous and wonderful man he is. If you cared enough to keep informed, you’d know about him, too. You’d know his name. The startled eyes of a little girl holding up her tiny bowl stopped Stella from going too fast, from risking miscalculation and, that most dreadful event, waste. So, what did you bring today?

Oh. I get it. Sorry. I’m empty handed in that way. He paused then asked, Wars where exactly?

Everywhere! Here, there and anywhere you care to look. Stella sighed. Nobody knows because there is no press coverage. Hundreds of thousands of people suffering, and nobody knows. Oh God, don’t let me hit this stupid man with this spoon! It’s not his fault that nobody knows and nobody cares. Get a grip, Stella.

Anywhere is not a place.

Okay. Anywhere includes Ethiopia, where you are now. But war and famine make an endless cycle. Just because of a few people’s thirst for power and wealth. ‘Lust for stuff’ is what I say. ‘Stuff’ makes them go unconscious and start wars. And, because of their stupid wars, regular people cannot farm and feed themselves. Usually they are forced to flee their villages and then must wander around looking for safety. Safety is all anybody dreams of! But, wars and terrified refugees of war—moving here, running there, trying to keep warm and eat something—destroy vegetation. Natural environments are fragile. That’s when Fear rules and Nature suffers. And that’s often followed by drought. Another killer. She filled another bowl, more carefully, and took a deep, ragged breath of heat and sand. Didn’t you bring something? Medicine? Food? Water? Anything useful? Stella felt herself about to cry, and that made her madder than anything did. Even a box of matches?

There was no reply. Intent upon getting their food, the refugees barely glanced his way. Except for the scraping of her ladle against the tiny bowls, Stella made no further comment. For a moment, it seemed as if someone had turned off the sound in a movie. She felt lightheaded.

Stella glanced over to where the man stood, but he had moved. She felt a hand on her arm and the ladle taken from her fingers. He was right beside her and ever so gently eased her away from the steaming pots. She started to protest, but he continued to hold her away with his left hand. With his right hand he was already dipping up sadza. In the transition, not a beat had been missed in the food service. Even in her aching fog, Stella had to admire his dexterity and sense of timing.

As the ladle hovered in space, he asked, Can you stand alone? Without gripping the ladle, here? I realize you needed that.

Yes, of course, smiled Stella, feeling her arm go numb and her legs buckling. I’m fine. Really fine.

Uh-huh. I noticed how fine you are.

Her head fell against his bicep and she closed her eyes, I do think I need a break, though. Maybe I do.

They stood very close in the heat. Yes ma’am. But I’m not letting go till you tell me who you are, said the stranger, quite dexterous in his two tasks and rather amazing in his strength. If that’s your father’s plane, what’s your name? Miss Arpad?

He turned to her and, for the first time, they really looked into each other’s eyes. He seemed to recognize her. His light blue eyes narrowed, and his mouth opened slightly as if he were trying to remember her name and form the words. She felt his breath on her face. His lips were full and beautifully shaped, and Stella stared at them, waiting for words that did not come. For a moment even the ladle stopped. She looked from his lips into his eyes again, and there she saw something that sent warmth rushing through her diaphragm into her lungs, almost knocking the wind out of her. What power! This man was someone who had something—that special something people talk about. Her breath came faster, through parched lips, and the part of her mind that took pictures snapped away. Ever so gently he leaned down and kissed those rough, dry lips. A jolt of energy shot through her, from toes to lips, and she lingered there, as if her whole body rested on his mouth.

* * *

Laying her head against the cold, slick vinyl interior of the taxi, Mary saw Lionel in her mind’s eye, exactly as she had seen him that day. His height, his incredibly thick golden hair massed in curls like a halo, his powerful shoulders and arms, his penetrating gaze, his seeming ability to look at her and know her thoughts—and the most handsome face she’d ever seen in person. Like a Nordic god, filled with light and thunder, Lionel made his entrance into her life just as smoothly as he had walked on stages all over the world and captured audience after audience.

To see Lionel simply as a performer, though, was to slight him, she thought. Lionel Lionhart is a rare creature, one of God’s charismatic creations, someone for whom the stage of life itself becomes his personal playground.

She smiled to herself and marveled at how quickly and perfectly he had read her situation, matched her rhythm and, stepping into her place, lent himself to the task. Lionel appeared to be, that day, a saint sanctified by the light of the Sun God. Yet there were lines in that face and around those lips that told her, even then, how deeply he had suffered. Mingled with his powerful persona was an inexpressible sorrow that told her he had traveled a far greater distance than a few thousand miles to keep this appointment to feed the hungry. The man’s eyes were old and sad. When first they met hers, she glimpsed vulnerability—something that few men ever let a woman see. Just as quickly, though, like the Sun disappearing behind a cloud, his eyes were fully armored against an invasion of his soul.

If you’re not Miss Arpad, who are you? he’d asked.

My name is Stella Mann, she murmured.

Slowly releasing her body, he kept her hand in his and bowed over it, kissing her fingers. And I, madam, am Lionel Lionhart, a handy man in any kitchen.

With that he released her hand and returned to his task, devoting too much energy to it, as most people do at first, giving little pieces of himself with each portion.

Pace yourself, Lionel. The line never ends.

Yes, ma’am! he snapped smartly. Whatever you say, ma’am. And may I say, you’d better find a place to lie down before you fall down.

Oh right, Stella said as she turned away. I had better get some rest. Walking on trembling legs toward the doctor’s tent, she sighed. The new volunteers grow tired quickly. At first, it’s that lack of pacing. So, either nobody is here to help or somebody shows up who wants to do it all in one day.

She did not let herself think about the kiss.

Stepping into the doctor’s tent, she saw Dr. Daniels’s haggard face hovering above the swollen body of a listless little boy

You’re blocking my light, snapped the good doctor.

You’re right, I am, laughed Stella, shifting position. I came by to let you know we’ve got a new volunteer among us, one Lionel Lionhart.

The doctor shook his head. I’ve heard that name, I think, but I don’t know from where. Did he bring anything useful?

Well, he came in on a plane—which is all I know—except that it immediately took off, she said. If he brought medical supplies or food, he didn’t say. I didn’t see any. I don’t think so.

So why’s he here?

I don’t know that, either. Overcome with the need to lie down, she gave a little wave, signaling her exit. You know where to find me.

You drink a lot of water, Stella, and then some, called the doctor. You’re dehydrated. You know better!

Stella barely remembered walking the last few steps to the plane and climbing up the ladder. Removing her hat, she felt as if her head were painfully spinning upon her aching shoulders. Greedily, she drank all the water in the pitcher, then refilled it and nearly emptied it again.

I was dehydrated! Thought Stella, removing her shoes and stretching out on her bunk. I’ve got to be more careful. As she lay back, she felt her spine unkink, vertebra by vertebra, and her pelvic bones relax and realign themselves. She settled into the narrow mattress, her body grateful for the rest. Her last thought was, Lionel probably saved my life. I’ve got to remember to take water to him . . . 

She awoke to see the orange sun smashing into the horizon. Fierce rays blinded her. She lay squinting, feeling her lips stuck together. She reached for the big jar of cream and slathered it on her lips and face. In a trance of exhaustion, she lay there. Suddenly, remembering Lionel, she was on her feet, wiping the extra cream off her face, running the soft towel over her cracked lips. Bits of her lips came off on the towel, and she thought a few more pieces of me left in Africa. Oh well. Shrugging, she took a large canteen from the storage bin, filled it, slung it over her shoulder, and hastened toward the chow tent.

There she saw the blond giant filling the last few stragglers’ bowls. She paused, feeling the heavy canteen bump against her hip. Fascinated by the contrast between the natives and this visitor, who looked as if he came from another planet, Stella wondered why he was visiting this desperate land. Nobody ever came here except the occasional embassy minion, members of international relief organizations, and the rare bleeding-heart photographer. Ethiopia was not a place where beautiful people like Lionel came to hang out. When casting about for some place to go and something to do, European watering holes were usually favored by the rich and beautiful.

This man, Stella realized, is definitely one of the beautiful people. To her practiced eye, even his scruffy-seeming clothes betrayed made-to-order origins. The jeans fit those long legs too well to be off the rack, and the denim shirt was one of Ralph Lauren’s studies in casualness. The golden cross blazing upon his chest, visible even from this distance, could have graced a museum filled with relics of antiquity.

When Lionel became aware of her, his dazzling smile welcomed her into his presence. Hey, Stella! With a wave of his free arm, he beckoned her, and she saw that his energy wasn’t even fazed by a task she had found so repetitive and arduous three hours ago.

You were a life saver, literally, she said, walking toward him. I was seriously dehydrated. It can creep up on you. Here. She handed him the canteen.

He lifted the canteen to that glorious mouth, saying Thanks. She watched as he drank fast and allowed the water to overflow his mouth and spill down onto his shirt. A waste he will learn to avoid if he stays here very long.

We have to be vigilant, Mr. Lionhart, or we’ll also be victims of this relentless heat. One should drink a bit of water every hour, no matter what. By the time you feel thirsty, it can already be too late.

Mr. Lionhart! he roared, spewing droplets of water on both of them. Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry. I just haven’t been called Mr. Lionhart since the last time I talked to a banker!

Stella laughed with him. Lionel might be good company. He made her laugh.

* * *

Joe Allen’s was busy with the late dinner crowd, so Mary took a seat at the bar. Hi, George, she said to the bartender, smiling happily. How are you tonight?

Very well, thank you. You look quite well. His slight emphasis on quite told her he had picked up on her good mood.

She smiled but decided that she would have to keep her secret. Mary looked in the mirror for any faces she might recognize. Not a friend in sight. Oh well. She studied the blackboard where the menu, written in chalk, changed daily.

Lionel liked this place because there was always someone he knew. The tourists who came here were theatergoers from Manhattan or the greater metropolitan areas, like Jersey and Connecticut, people who did not freak out when they spotted a celebrity.

* * *

Lionel, they learned in camp, was definitely a celebrity. He spent three days that first time, and it was not until Steve suddenly recalled seeing Lionel’s picture on the cover of Rolling Stone that they realized he was a musician. With much prying from her and Steve, Lionel eventually admitted he played a little guitar and once sang in a band.

It must be rock and roll, if your picture appeared on Rolling Stone, mused the good doctor, but I’m afraid I’ve never read that magazine… though I did attend a Grateful Dead concert once with my daughter, and I enjoyed it more than I expected.

Finally, Lionel turned to Stella, And you don’t have a clue, either? He was smiling, clearly enjoying anonymity among those who knew nothing about him.

I’m embarrassed, she sighed, because you are probably a zillion-dollar rock star with hordes of worshiping fans—and we would surely be among them—if only we— she stammered.

Why, Stella, said Lionel, don’t be embarrassed. Each of us has our own task. Mine was performing. All I ever wanted was to belt out a few songs and be the center of attention. They all laughed. Isn’t that what you three want? To stand before cheering crowds? To feel their applause sweep over you? Lionel laughed again, and they all joined in. Being out front, on stage like that was the farthest thing from any of their minds. It truly was laughable.

Stella smiled, "Okay, okay. I’m very impressed by who you probably